Explore "Quicksands" by B.M. Croker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Hospitable Mrs. de Castro gave Brian a pressing invitation to remain to dinner and share "pot luck," represented, as I happened to know, by brain cutlets and Bombay toast -- no fare for an invalid. He was about to accept with effusion, when he caught my swift signal of unqualified horror and murmured a polite excuse. At half-past seven a motor brought his man-servant to escort him to the West End Hotel, and he departed with reluctance, assuring me that he "would be round first thing in the morning."
"My, but that gentleman do set store by you," announced Mrs. de Castro, as soon as he was out of sight. "All the questions he asked about your health! I told him as your hair was falling in handsful, enough to stuff a cushion, and you could not abide your food, and your dress bodies were taken in inches round the waist, and the skirts just a-slipping off you. My word, but he was in a way. He says he has come to take you home."